


High As Hell

by poeticandepic



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: 1920s, Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Blood Drinking, Drinking, F/M, Other, PoC, Slow Burn, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-05-25 12:04:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14976803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticandepic/pseuds/poeticandepic
Summary: He crashed through the door like it wasn’t there. She heard the ringing of gunfire. In fact, she always heard ringing of gunfire; the perks of moving to England she expected. But she never would have guessed that Thomas Shelby would be rushing in her apartment. Wide-eyed, blood splattered face, already barking orders.





	1. What is Your Name?

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. This is my first Peaky Blinders fanfiction, I hope you enjoy. I will make a character information guide for some of the originals. Enjoy! I own nothing but the original story and original characters.

He crashed through the door like it wasn’t there. She heard the ringing of gunfire. In fact, she always heard the ringing of gunfire; the perks of moving to England she expected. But she never would have guessed that Thomas Shelby would be rushing in her apartment. Wide-eyed, blood splattered face, already barking orders. “Hey!” Zoya pushed herself against the wall furthest away from him, the windows, and the goddamn bloody door, that was wide open for everyone to see. He pointed a calloused finger her way, before tossing a quick glance around the flat,”Get down!” he shouted, “Now,”

Like she needed a warning. Her knees slammed in to the shitty tiles she’d just scrubbed yesterday. Apparently tomorrow too. The screaming voices of Mr.Bomsky and Mrs.Bomsky, her upstair neighbors, could be heard clear as day in her kitchen. It was as if they were there, similar to the very first day she arrived, the only neighbors that greeted her. They even baked a cake.

“Close the fucking door,” Zoya combed her fingers through her coils, clearly frustrated. Thomas had collapsed to the ground as well. Heaving in a long breath, after kicking the entrance with a scoffed boot. He blanced himself on his knees, eyeing her through the worn legs of the dining table.

Zoya looked towards his blue saucers, peeking from the opposite side of the room. She could smell the sour gunpowder in the air, and the drying blood on his disheveled shirt. Carefully, she began to crawl towards the snapping fireplace, her skirt dragged behind her. Zoya snagged the rusted fire iron from its resting position on the brick mantle. Now settling in a seated position her attention fell on him. “Mr.Shelby.” she greeted quietly.

“Apologies ma’am. Don’t mean to come up like this,” his voice was gruff, “There is a bit of commotion outside. I need you to keep still, alright?” Zoya nodded, shutting her eyes. “Now,” On all fours he started to the window nearest the door, ”Tell me your name.”

“Why the fuck does that matter?”

“Because four men will come in h’ere and ask you some questions. I need to know your name.” he paused, gazing through the pleated white shades. His pointer and middle finger scissor the cloth dirty. “It’ll be alright.” Thomas grunted. “Trust me.”

Her palms tightened the grip of the iron stick at the mere thought of gangsters crowding in to her home. The only place where people didn’t judge her. Hate her. The only place where she could be herself.

“Why should I trust you?”

“In these times, its all we got eh?” she studied the back of his sweaty head, nodding to herself.

“Zoya.”

A silence. No gunfire. No screaming. Until four large blokes with blood stained firearms walked their way past the window. Thomas ducked, his breathing slowed. “Alright then Zoya, follow my lead,”


	2. The Art of Remebering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone. I really enjoy writing this little story. If you have question comment. If you like, please comment. I really would like to know what you think. And if you don't want to, that's fine. I really just appreciate you for being here. Also, more characters to come!!
> 
> \-- I own nothing but the original story and original characters--.

“All aboard. All aboard.” Zoya pressed her papers in the nudge of her armpit, bending forward to grab two black suitcases. He’d given her the ticket over a week ago, told her she’d be safe in Birmingham after what went down in Derby.

“Oh, there not too fond of me h’ere,” Her home was a mess. And to top it all off, two men lay lifeless on her carpet, blood pooling at her feet. “Let me deal with this eh?” Zoya, wide eyed, let the red kiss her shoes.Her breathing slowed. 

“Listen, there is an inn about four blocks from here. Go there and wait for me, Zoya” Thomas Shelby, covered in blood, took the knob of the door in his hold. “Zoya,”

Four blocks turned in to an hour of her wondering the dead streets. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen someone brutally beaten. She pictured their bodies lined up across a bed, her father, the largest, bled the most. It took her days to scrub it all down. Underneath her bed, along the cracks of the wall, and beside her writing desk were he must of put up a good fight. Her mother was limp. The only one with her eyes open in horror. Lastly her little sister, left leg bent an unnatural way, but her face still pretty. Like a preserved doll. 

She eventually turned up to the dimly lit building. Sweat trickling down her forehead. Zoya heard his gruff voice before opening the door. She eyed his silhouette, blurry through the glass windows. His blood splattered arms were spread on the lobby desk, back hunched. “If your lying to me and you did turn her down, this place will be ash.”

Zoya turned the handle. Standing in the frame of the doorway, she noticed Mr. Shelby’s body relax. 

“Ma’am” the worker murmured a quiet greeting. His brows raised slightly. No one wanted the Shelby’s on there bad side. 

“I would like one room, please.” Mr. Shelby cleared his throat. “I need a bottle of gin as well.” he paused, fingers drumming on the surface. “Zoya, tell the man what you want.”

Confused, she shook her head. “Food, Zoya. You’ve had a long night.” he mused, digging in his breast pockets for a smoke.

“I’m not hungry,” the image if her family hunted her thoughts. The night needed to end. She couldn’t imagine putting food in her mouth at this hour.

“Very well,” he pressed his lips together. Ever so slightly, he let the smoke seep out. His naked eye fixed on hers.

The thin worker pulled a key off a rusted hook behind him, not asking for any information. “I’ll bring your gin right up sir,” 

“All aboard,” the final call rang through her ear. Zoya hurried in the train entrance behind a family of three. The youngest, a boy no more than three, watched her shuffle through a group people.

He’d given her a cart for no reason. It was a kind gesture. Sure she’d be denied anyway, Zoya told herself she wouldn’t get to comfortable. With one last assured glance at her crumpled ticket, she confirmed cart number. 334.

Right outside, Zoya placed her cases on the floor. She squeezed the small lever on the sliding door, heart bouncing surprisingly excited to see what awaited. A cursive line of smoke danced out as soon as she slid the door open. Guessing by his ringed fingers, and dark locks, Mr. Shelby was seated to her right, holding the daily news.

“Mr. Shelby?” He cleared his throat, folding the paper in his lap. “You didn’t have to come.”

“ I always see my business through.”


	3. Something Pure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to really thank all you for the positive vibes of the story. Reading my first comment was awesome. It gave me hope and inspiration. So, here we go.

He pressed his thumb in to the wheel, creating pink friction in his nail. Zoya gazed outside from automobile at the damp, dark streets of Birmingham. A few women glanced up from their afternoon chatter. Instantly, their brows rose. The feared Tommy Shelby driving alongside a black women. A dark skinned black women. She imagined them casually comforting themselves by addressing her as a whore, then heedlessly going about their day. 

Zoya focused her attention and mind elsewhere. She always wanted to be that person who let those things roll off her shoulder. Strong, and unbothered was the goal. But deep inside... shit hurt. Something else bothered her...him. What was he getting out of all this? He ruined generations of hard fucking work, not just by her parents, but her ancestors way before. The shabby apartment was worth more than a palace. It was their empire. Something opposite of the Shelby’s. Something pure.

“Here we are,” his boots crushed in the rubble and ash. He straightened his jacket, nodding to gawking pedestrians. 

Zoya sprawled out quickly in order to lift her lame suitcase from it's wedged position before he could cross over to help. Out of all things that recently took place, why would this be priority on her embarrassment list? Thomas put his arm on the door to widen the opening. “Allow me,” he insisted, clearing his throat.

“ It’s not necessary,” she backed out, altogether wiping at her skirt. The air all around sent her into a coughing fit.

This was the first time she’d seen the gangster smile. His blue eyes sparkled for a moment reminding her of broken glass. “Good ole Birmingham.” his calloused hands ghosted her back. “Two bedrooms. I don’t know if you have family who’d like to stay.”

She only shook her head, eyeing the entrance.

He pressed something cold against her finger tips. “That there is you’re key. Try not to lose it, yeah?”

“Thank you,” her voice came out short. Now to other matters. “You want me as a maid, no?” 

Thomas dug in his breast pocket, gracefully lighting a blunt. “I wouldn’t have you as a maid,” a long stream of smoke left his dry lips. “Not after everything you went through.”

A decent person would have said that. She wasn’t moved by him. Zoya was moved by the words. Sometimes hearing the right thing at the right time reminded her that her story mattered. Doubtful he noticed her simple silence, Zoya took a step forward. She was home.


	4. Small Heath Welcoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! It has been a while and I'm sorry but I'm back with this story that I can't seem to get out of my head. Enjoy!!

Nothing needed a good scrub down, or even a quick tidy up. The place was strangely spotless in places that you’d least expect. The outside grime of Small Heath was not to be compared to this orderly interior. Before completely getting comfortable, Zoya turned to peek out the front window to see if he’d left.

Mr. Shelby had retreated back into the mobile, his calloused fingers straightening his cap. She leaned away just before he gave the complex a last glance. The lively roaring of his engine fell on her ears. A cool breath eased from her lips. 

Zoya spent the next day rearranging the space to her liking. She didn’t know how long she’d have here, but she’d make herself comfortable no matter the moment. It was nothing huge, just things like the sofa, and relocating it to the a small corner towards the back of the living area. There was a spotty, panned window she noticed yesterday that eat up a beautiful light in the evening. Was it strange that she wanted to bathe in it? 

So, that called for another arrangement, gathering the long lamp close beside it for whenever she wanted to read at night. She laid out three dusty carpets (after cleaning them) that had been stuffed in the back of one of the bedroom’s closet. The first, near the door, as soon as someone walked in. The second, in the middle of her own room, and the third pressed between the kitchen table’s legs and wooden floor.

Until everything was settled and to her liking, Zoya realized she hadn't eaten anything since arriving. There were a few vegetables in storage. Nothing enough to make a stew. She yanked one of the last cabinets open to find three apples clumped in to a netted bag. Had she really not eaten in a day? 

Unraveling them from their prison, she rushed over to the sink to give them a good rinse. Then took a generous bit from the smallest, but brightest one. Not disappointed, Zoya took another, then another until she was left with only the core. Zoya was half way through the second when she heard the familiar sound of Mr. Shelby’s engine.

Without thinking she shoved all the loose foods back to their homes. Why was he here? Zoya expertly tied her coiled hair out of her face. She hurried to her room, her hands ghosting the wooden post as she swiftly made her way up; creaking at her every step she cursed the stairs. Zoya scooped her only pair of shoes settled near her suitcase.

She froze. The ringing of the doorbell threw her off. There was a doorbell?

Today Mr. Shelby left his spectacles behind. 

He removed his cap as he stepped through the entrance, blue eyes seemingly adjusting to the change. “Zoya,” he addressed, before clearing his throat.

“Mr. Shelby,” there was an awkward silence, at least to her. He seemed too distracted by the rug she placed earlier to notice.

“I’ve come to take you out shopping.” he perused past the living space and directly in to the kitchen. “ Pol said she’d left a few things but I doubt their edible.”

Zoya pressed her hand across her waist, smoothing any noticeable wrinkles on her skirt. “ I’ll be fine Mr. Shelby. I was planning to go midday.”

“I’ve should've checked before I left yesterday.” clearly ignoring her, the gangster drew one of the cupboards open, revealing the rushed scene from earlier.

Zoya bit her bottom lip, and glanced over her shoulder. She wasn’t going to laugh. Why? Because it wasn’t funny.

Mr.Shelby turned with his hands seeping in his pockets. “I didn’t get your last name.”

“Leonard,” she offered.

“Mrs. Leonard I have an assistant to take you out.” Zoya’s brows furrowed. “She’ll take you to the shops. Show you around. Get you used to Birmingham.”

“I really appreciate the gesture Mr. Shelby but I believe I can manage fine on my on. Your people...” she paused trying to find the right words. “Your employees don’t have to get involved with...whatever this is.” 

“You’re not hungry,” he glanced back into the cupboard.

Zoya nodded, then quickly shook her head, “That’s not what I was saying. I don’t think you need to go out of your way to-”

“Out of my way?” he interrupted taking a blunt out of his pocket. After it was lit, Mr. Shelby strolled to where she stood, in front of the window. “That there,” his fingers scissored the butt. “That’s my h‘ouse,” 

Zoya pushed the curtains aside. “You drove here,” she stated.

“I had business elsewhere,” he breathed deeply. Then took another draw. “Like I said she’ll take you around in... “ he pulled up his left sleeve, “...five minutes.”

Zoya opened her mouth, but decided it wasn’t worth it. A quick shop wouldn’t be bad. She was curious as to what Small Heath, Birmingham had to offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave your comments and thoughts. I want to know what you all think about this story and where it might be headed.


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